


Rose of England, Thou Shall Fade Not

by IllyanaA



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, I will warn at the beginning of each section, Major Illness, Various hard topics like war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5278604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllyanaA/pseuds/IllyanaA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various snippets of various lengths of various events in the long life of England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Black Plague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of illness and mass death in this one. As usual, unbeta'd, all mistakes mine.

Death, England considers, is not so much a permanent end as it is a universal constant. Death is a living being, rearing its ugly head ever so often, taking more than it is due as if trying to reach some quota. And right now? Right now, it is very much awake and active. It creeps through his city, leaving behind a trail of bodies and a horrid stench that he’s quite convinced will stain his streets forever.

London is cast in a dark shadow, darker than he’s seen in ages, and the night brings with it images like the ones to be expected from a nightmare. Only there is no waking up from this, it continues, day in and day out in a vicious cycle, and wonders if there will be anyone left when this finally comes to an end.

Or, he reflects, staring out over the streets of his capital, perhaps he is just being melodramatic. But as he sits feeble and weakened near the window, he decides he’s entitled to a little melodrama. The other nations that surround him are experiencing the same overwhelming death that he is, and he can’t imagine they’re handling it better. After all, his poetic musings could be seen as a way to distance himself from his slow, miserable destruction. Sometimes, he wonders if this is what it feels like for a nation to truly die. Forced to sit idly by and watch as the people that give them breath wither away.

To make matters worse, he’s locked in a war with France—insufferable bastard—driving his death toll up and further serving to weaken him. Neither he nor France have set foot on a battlefield in ages, thanks in large part to this accursed plague, but the southern nation won’t just surrender and grant them both a reprieve from war. He swears, if he makes it through this, that land will be his, and he revels in the joy that will come from France’s defeat.

He looks down through the window again and his smile fades, his gaze catching the image of a young mother laying a blanket over the still form of her son. It seems so unfair, that they should suffer death, which for them is a certainty, a state of being to never return from, and for him, it is temporary, his body never truly dying unless he is conquered or his people destroyed.

A knock on the door tears his gaze from the heartbreaking scene below, and to his surprise, her majesty is standing under the door frame, with a tray of food in her hands.

“Milady,” he struggles to stand and bow his greeting, but she waves him off before he’s made it surely to his feet.

“Peace, England, I know you cannot make me ill, and I have decided that you are in need of company.” She sets the tray down on a stand nearby.

He mutters a “Thank you” before turning to eat the proffered meal. A breeze pulls in from the window and wracks his sickly frame with shivers, causing his hand to tremble even worse than it already is. He sighs, frustrated, and is met with the sight of his queen draping a blanket around his shoulders. Normally, he would bat her hands away and insist he was fine—he can take care of his own needs, thank you—but he sees the mother in her in this moment, and decided to leave her be. She has also lost children to this atrocity; the least he can do is let her have this moment.

And when he has eaten, and exhaustion begins to take its toll, she helps him to his feet and to his bed, laying him down underneath a mound of blankets. She sits beside him singing softly, hymns and songs of old, brushing back his hair, until he’s drifted nearly to sleep.

He pretends he doesn’t hear her voice break at the end of the line of her last song—one her children love—as she leans over and bids him good night.


	2. The Hundred Years War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for burning at the stake and also some mildly derogatory speak of women, it is the 15th century. Unbeta'd, all mistakes mine.

They have been here for one hundred sixty-five days. Not that he was counting. Five and half _months_ they have been at Orléans, and it still hasn’t fallen. The Battle of the Herrings had been a sizable victory in their favour—although he was a little embarrassed that they’d attacked a caravan carrying _fish_ ¸ which were set aside for Lent. He had a feeling it would come back to haunt them later—but regardless of their continuous assault, Orléans continues to stand tall.

England rides through checking his camp, gathering reports from scouts to carry back to the inevitable strategy meetings. His steed stamps impatient beneath him, as he hears the final message from a scout. This one involving the Scots.

He had been furious when he’d first learned of his elder brother’s alliance with France. His brothers hate him, he knows this, but it had still felt like a betrayal. Why he’s surprised, he’s unsure. Scotland had received help from France during their war not too many years ago. His initial anger has faded, however. Now, he’s mostly just bitter about it, but he’s grateful that Scotland has the decency to stay off the battlefield for the most part.

The meeting with his fellow military men has gone absolutely nowhere, the decision to just continue sieging with no change in tactic has been approved almost unanimously. England stalks from the tent and sulks about this. He’s still relatively young and impatient, but he wonders how much more slowly they could possibly move. The sooner they end this war and he can annex this land, the sooner he can return his attention to Scotland.

He hasn’t walked too far off, though, before he hears murmuring of an out of breath scout reporting to his superior. He casually strolls over to where they stand, enough to catch the ending of the boy’s speech.

“They’re bringing in a new military strategist. Rumor has it that it’s a woman. I don’t see how anyone would let a woman venture into warfare—this is man’s affair—but considering the rumored prophecies of an armoured maiden who would save France, perhaps we should look into this.”

Before the older man can respond, England jumps in enthusiastically. “If it is a woman, we should target her. I know how my brother is with women—not to mention Francis—she could be of use to us as a hostage.”

“I concur with Lord Kirkland. Find out what you can about this new addition. Even if the rumors prove false, we should know what we can.”

*  *   *   *   *   *   *

England stalks in to see their captive, now that she’s been successfully transferred from the hands of the Burgundians. He has yet to lay eyes on her, but after hearing of her achievements on the battlefield, he can’t wait to see the woman who has caused nothing but trouble for the English cause. Personally, he thinks her quite arrogant, to claim that she is doing the work of God, but some of his men have wondered if, by laying hands on her, they are committing themselves to damnation.

She surprises him. She’s unusually calm, most women who land themselves in a cell are loud and whiny and, truthfully, unbearable. But instead, he finds her praying, serenely, and she doesn’t look up when he approaches her.

Without standing and turning from her kneeling position, she simply asks, “Lord Kirkland, I presume?”

“You’ve heard of me.”

“Oh, yes. Francis always speaks of your obstinance, your pride. I pray for you sometimes, England, that you’ll see the error of your ways.”

He files away the knowledge that she and France are on a first name basis, but beyond that, the use of his nation name clues him in to the idea that if she knows who he is, she knows who France is. But instead of fishing for more, he asks, “You pray for me?”

“And for your king. We are taught to pray for our enemies are we not?”

And infuriates him that she’s right. Now he understands why her interrogators had left her, frustrated.

“I don’t know what angle you are trying to play, but I promise you, you will be found guilty of heresy, if nothing else. We will see to it that you pay for your crimes against the Holy Church.”

She laughs at him then, a light patronizing laugh completely devoid of malicious intent. And her calm smile unsettles him. “Oh, England, cast not the first stone. For I know your history is not clean, and one day you will see why I have done what I have done. I am fighting, under God’s direction, to prevent the loss of something I love. Perhaps, one day, you will understand what it is like to do the same.”

He leaves her then, and he knows she thinks she’s won. But once he shakes the uneasiness hanging over him from their parting words, he gains a little pep in his step. She has given up so much information, and so he will direct his fellows to have her executed at all costs. This could be the final step in causing France to stumble.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

The morning of the thirtieth of May is a quiet one. Jeanne d’Arc is led out to her stake, a verdict of guilty has been brought down on her head, and now she will burn.

She walks with her head held high, short hair blowing in the morning breeze. She has called in two French fathers to make her crucifixes, and, presumably, do her last rites. An English soldier has made her one, too, and she takes it gracefully, with a smile, and sticks it in the front of her dress.

The area is silent as she is carried to the stake and tied. It is not until the torch is brought forward, that there is commotion, and a pained voice cries out from the crowd.

“ _Jeanne! Non!”_

England turns to see France barreling through the crowd guards on either side of him, attempting to restrain him. He joins the fray, his strength greater than that of his men, and together they hold France to a distance. She smiles at him before the fire is set at her feet. England's original satisfaction at his plan to hurt France fades. The older nation looks broken and defeated. He sobs as she is set ablaze, and wails as she burns. 

He doesn’t stop, even after she is gone and the fire has dwindled. And, even though they are enemies in this conflict, France slumps against him when he has cried himself out. In the quiet, he whispers something to him in his anger and grief, that England is quite sure he deserves.

“One day, England, you will know the pain of loving a mortal. And I hope the fire that burns your heart burns at her loss as hot as the fire that consumed Jeanne.”

*  *  *  *  *  *

Years later, as he says his final goodbyes to Elizabeth, sweet, strong Elizabeth, with tears streaming down his face, France’s words come back to him. And after the funeral, he secludes himself away into his room, pulls out a quill and writes a letter to his arch enemy.

Weeping bitterly, he scribbles out two small phrases.

_France,_

_I’m sorry. You were right._

_-England_


	3. Insolence in Independence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're skipping way ahead in time here to give a special shout out to my friend Tibs who provided me with the frustration and general doneness needed to write this vignette.  
> Also, someone who is English/British please correct me. I am unsure of how much the monarch interacted with Parliament way back when, and finding information has been hard. I'm a British History minor, so I would honestly like to know.  
> After this I can go back to doing the Wars of the Roses, English Civil War, Settling of America, etc. (This was originally supposed to be Chapter 6)

England sits in Parliament, and runs a hand over his face, drumming the fingers of his other hand on the table in front of him. He is bored by these meetings, longing instead to be back out on the seas. The discussions range from local issues to governing Canada, from further expansions to the unrest in the American colonies. Issues which he knows the details of long before his people do, because really, his attendance at these sessions is a formality. He is not even allowed to vote on anything. Discussion lingers on the recent demonstrations in America, militia skirmishing with regulars and the like. He knows the boy is trying to make a point, but all he has done is frustrate him.

Honestly, Britain is at his wits end dealing with the boy’s whining and complaining about this and that. He regrets spoiling him so, but in reality, his situation is quite good. His taxes are lower than that of Great Britain, he has a guaranteed buyer of his exports, and he has powerful protection. No other colony has Parliamentary representation, so why should he?

He has been in meetings with his Majesty and his advisors, trying to decide what to do on the matter, but so far nothing has been resolved.

The Empire returns his attention to the room when a man enters looking sorely out of breath and a little frazzled, clutching a letter tightly in his hand.

“Honourable Parliament. Your Majesty.” He bows low. “I have brought in a document from officials in North America that seems quite urgent.” The room is struck to silence.

Moments of quietness pass. Something finally shifts in England’s stomach, and he speaks up without being addressed, “What are you waiting for, a written invitation? Out with it!” His voice echoes around the room, demanding attention, and the little man in the center nervously clears his throat and unfolds the paper.

_Ah, the authority that comes with Empire._

“It seems that the Continental Congress has issued a declaration of independence.”

“ _What?!”_

Britain can feel his shoulders heaving; he’s _shaking_ with rage. He opens and closes his fist a few times, breathing in and out, attempting to regain his calm, and failing miserably. He’s about to storm down to the floor and read the message himself, when he feels a hand on his arm, stilling him. His Majesty gestures for him to retake his seat, and commands that this so called “declaration” be read.

_“When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands with hath connected them to another…”_

_Disolve?_

And the document continues, reaching a list of “grievances” done by and accusations made against their king, his anger continues to rise. There are phrases that stick out in his mind, _“We hold them as we hold the rest of Mankind, Enemies in War, and in Peace, Friends,”_ is one, and another, _“all connection between them and the State of Great Britain is and ought to be, totally dissolved.”_

He closes out the document by reading the names of those who have signed, and the moment he is finished, chatter breaks out in the chamber, outrage and confusion in the air. England is furious with him, trying to decide when is the soonest he can board a ship and straighten the Colony out.

_That_ insolent _boy. He’s been given everything,_ everything _and more. How dare he disrespect his sovereign in this way? How dare he betray_ me _in this way? He thinks he is ready for this, to stand alone in this world, then so be it._

For a moment England worries about news spreading to some of his more recently acquired land. America’s grandiose ambitions could inspire others. He could lose everything if he is not careful.

No. The boy stands alone, no allies, no help. He will be dealt with in the same manner of all other enemies of the Crown: swiftly and brutally. There is no hope for him.

An order is given to send more troops to America, and Britannia stands then, volunteering to lead the charge. America will feel his rage the moment he sets foot on his shores, and with any luck, the child will realize his mistake then.

If it is a war the boy wants, it is a war he shall have. He will be reminded of his place; Britannia is sure of it. So that the next time thoughts of independence cross his mind, he will remember licking the wounds given to him by the British Empire.


End file.
